


Fight or Flight

by ruxian



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Relationship, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Time Skips, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruxian/pseuds/ruxian
Summary: The floor creaks behind him as he flips to the next page.Slowly, Sam closes the notebook and sets it down on the table, then raises his hands in a sign of surrender as he turns.Barnes is holding a gun to him when he faces him, knuckles white from his grip on the metal. The look on his face is near furious, almost feral, but there’s an undercurrent of fear that he’s all too familiar with there too.Sam supposes that’s fair.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanov & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 128





	Fight or Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pettigrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettigrace/gifts), [joshriku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joshriku/gifts).

> i have no idea where this idea came from or why but here we are.   
i’m so busy holy fuck. my life has turned into school/work/sleep repeat and i am ready to Stop pls. this has been lovingly worked on in the few spare hours i had this week and i hope you enjoy! i also apologize for any mistakes in the russian as i’ve been studying it for less than a year. :( 
> 
> this is for two of my dearest friends, yas and kari, who are just some of the most lovely and talented people in world, and i’m so grateful that i have the privilege of calling you both my friends. i hope you enjoy this fic that neither of you asked for <3

The apartment was easier to get into than Sam thought it would be, if he’s being honest. 

He’d been expecting traps, a multitude of locks, a grenade, _something_, when he opened the door, but instead the lock was as easy to pick as any other. Nothing nefarious awaits him as he steps through the threshold either, carefully closing the door behind him. No booby-traps, no wailing sirens, _nothing_. It’s just him and the creaky floorboards. 

He’s still cautious as he steps down the hallway, however, each placement of his feet intentional and light, reminiscent of his days in Afghanistan. There isn’t much to explore; it’s a very small apartment afterall. The small space screams of a paranoid inhabitant: newspapers and plywood over the windows, the furniture (what furniture there is) kept out of the way of any possible sight-lines, and Sam’s fairly certain that the bag in the corner is a go-bag. 

The furniture is bare-bones: just enough to have something to sleep on and a table to eat at. None of it looks even remotely comfortable. The entire space is dilapidated, and if he didn’t know any better, Sam would say it’s been abandoned for at least several months. 

There are a few signs of life, at least. A half-drunk cup of coffee next to the sink, a magazine from last week on the table, and a fresh bag of bread on the counter let him know that he’s in the right place. 

Sam’s gentle when he pries open the go-bag. It holds the usual suspects: toiletries, a change of clothes or two, a gun and its ammo, several knives, and a few maps tucked in next to a few food rations and a canteen. Nothing out of the ordinary, until he zips open a small pocket in the back panel. 

Carefully, he pulls out the small notebook he finds, along with a few pieces of paper. He takes them back with him to the table, spreading it all out carefully under the dim light. 

Most of the papers are brochures from the Captain America exhibit in DC, he finds. A few paragraphs in them are underlined or sloppily highlighted, but he can’t make sense of what makes them noteworthy. Others are hastily written coordinates, or thoughts scribbled out too much to be legible. Still, they must be important if they were kept in such a hard to find place. He makes sure his touch is light when he puts them back in the order he found them in. 

The notebook is obviously well-cared for, but still well loved; the binding is broken, but not like it was forced open. The leather edges of the book are still smooth, and the cover has little wear. Inside, a few of the pages are torn, probably from the amount of harsh scribbles sporadically covering them. The handwriting is sloppy, more so towards the beginning of the book, getting neater as he flips through to the more recent entries. 

He doesn’t read a lot, not wanting to invade even more than he already has. He can’t read a good portion of it anyway, seeing as he doesn’t speak Russian. 

‘_Я хочу знать_.’ One line says on a page near the front, followed by a harshly written, ‘_Я хочу вспомнить_’. 

‘_Кто Баки? Кто он? Кто я?’_

_‘Кто я? Кто я? Кто я?’_

_‘Кто я кто я кто я ктояктояктояктояктоякт–’_

_‘КТО БАКИ_?’ 

Sam breathes in deep. The handwriting is nothing short of _frantic_, like the writer was desperate to know the answers. He knows, deep in his chest, his _ribs_, that he won’t like the translations if he looks them up. 

Steadying himself with a few deep breaths, Sam continues to flip through the book, trying not to think about how many pages are filled with question marks. Progressively, it shifts to almost exclusively English, but there are still a few stray sentences in Russian. He skims over the sloppy penmanship, wondering why ‘_Coney Island_’ is circled so many times next to a crude drawing of a train. 

The floor creaks behind him as he flips to the next page. 

Slowly, Sam closes the notebook and sets it down on the table, then raises his hands in a sign of surrender as he turns. 

Barnes is holding a gun to him when he faces him, knuckles white from his grip on the metal. The look on his face is near furious, almost feral, but there’s an undercurrent of fear that he’s all too familiar with there too. 

Sam supposes that’s fair. 

“You’re not an easy man to find,” he says, tone light in an attempt to lighten the mood. Barnes doesn’t say anything, but his breathing visibly picks up, deep and frightened, and Sam sighs. 

“I’m unarmed,” he promises, turning and lifting up the back of his shirt and then the ankles of his pants to prove it, suddenly glad he had chosen to wear civilian clothes, “and I’m not here to bring you in. I just want to talk.” 

The gun doesn’t lower. That’s fair too. 

He takes a moment to look Barnes over, a bit surprised by his appearance. 

Barnes’ hair is longer than it was in DC, now trailing just beyond his collarbone, ends frizzy and split while the roots are a bit greasy. His beard is scraggly and overgrown, and the bags under his eyes are large and puffy, like he hasn’t gotten sleep in weeks. Sam can understand that; he isn’t sure how much sleep _he’d_ be getting if he had recently escaped his torturers of seventy years and was now on the run from them. 

His eyes, big and a shade of blue he wasn’t sure he’d come across before, are haunted, _hunted_, in a way that pangs in his chest. The way they flit from Sam to the notebook to every possible exit point makes sympathy curl in his diaphragm. The muscles in Barnes’ legs look just about ready to bolt, his entire body coiled in a prime example of fight or flight. 

Distantly, Sam is reminded of standing opposite a deer while on a hike once. A large buck, at that. The beast had a large set of antlers, sharp at the tips where there was more than enough power to cause deadly harm to Sam if the animal had so chosen. He remembers how his heart pounded, beating hard against his lungs and sternum, and he had no doubt that that deer had felt the same. That instinct that ran through every last nerve of your body, that told you whether you should stand your ground or run for your life was in all living creatures afterall. 

That day, Sam watched as the deer bolted into the trees, white fluffy tail held high until he couldn’t see it through the leaves anymore. 

In a way, it’s easy to superimpose the image of that deer over Barnes, standing just a few breaths away from him. That same skittish stance, the nervous heaving of breath and the wide, frantic eyes. 

But Barnes isn’t a deer, he’s something much more deadly. 

He’s the big bad wolf, with a mouth full of sharp, bloody teeth, and claws made to maim and rip and kill–more dangerous than any set of antlers. One snap of his jaws, one swipe of his claws, and Sam would be a goner. Barnes doesn’t need that gun in his hand, afterall. 

It’s easy to compare Barnes with a wild, feral creature, and maybe this version of him is, in a way, but Sam doesn’t feel afraid. Really, he thinks Barnes is the terrified one here. 

Sam’s read the files; how this man came out of what he’s gone through even _remotely_ sane is beyond him. Personally, Sam thinks Barnes is entitled to be as scared of people as he wants. 

The fact that Barnes didn't shoot him on sight is proof enough that he made the right decision. 

So, while Sam knows he should be cautious, he isn’t afraid. Unlike when he stood in front of that deer, his pulse is steady and sure. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, man,” he promises, keeping his voice neutral and calm. If his job as a counselor taught him anything, it’s how to make vulnerable people feel safe, and he’s going to need every bit of training he ever got. 

Barnes shifts his grip on the gun, brows pinching together as he looks over Sam, licking his lips like he’s trying to figure out a problem in his head. 

Sam tilts his head. “We’ve met before,” he offers gently, following the way Barnes’ eyes snap back up to his own. The gun lowers just a little.

“You’re the one with the wings…” Barnes croaks after a minute, voice hoarse with disuse, “from the helicarrier.”

“The one and only,” he confirms, smirking just a little. “You got a mean kick, my man.”

Barnes’ eyes widen, lowering the gun almost all the way as he takes half a step back. 

“You–”

“I ain’t here about that, don’t worry,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. 

Barnes looks him over again, searching for something on his face, and he must find it because his expression clears for a moment, then the frown is back in place. The gun lifts again, fractionally. 

“You’re the one who’s been following me,” Barnes grinds out, the words harsh and accusatory through his teeth. “You work for _him_.”

“I am,” Sam agrees, unashamed, “and I don’t. I work _with_ him.” 

Barnes blinks, tilting his head and shifting his weight, assessing. 

“Look, Steve doesn’t know I’m here,” he assures, “as far as he’s concerned, I’m chasing a month old tail in the hopes it’ll turn up something new.” 

Slowly, Barnes finally lowers the gun completely to his side. He looks resigned, jaw working as he drops his gaze to the floor. Barnes’ entire posture deflates, and he looks deceptively small, almost harmless, especially in the large hoodie he’s wearing. It’s an odd sight. 

“What do you want?” Barnes grunts, quiet, placing the gun in his waistband. The movement is slow and deliberate, like he’s trying not to spook Sam as he does it. 

Some small part of Sam appreciates it.

“To make you an offer, get some answers,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. He looks Barnes over one more time; he still won’t meet his eyes. Sam nods once. “See if I’m right.” 

Barnes frowns in confusion, the expression on his face for just a split second before it’s gone. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s obvious he’s listening. Waiting. 

Sam takes a deep breath. 

“We’ve been tracking down Hydra bases, you know,” he starts, very carefully watching Barnes as he speaks. “It’s not rare that they’re already destroyed by the time we get there, but crucial evidence is always preserved. The crew is always alive. Hurt, but alive.” Barnes blinks, face otherwise remaining blank. “Know anything about that?” 

The tendon in Barnes’ jaw moves, silence reigning for several heavy moments. Barnes breathes, exhaling sharp through his nose, mouth a tight line. He swallows. 

“No one else needs to die,” Barnes whispers, the ‘_because of me_’, remaining unsaid, but obvious. 

Sam nods. “Can’t say I’d be able to do the same if I was in your shoes.” 

Barnes shifts his feet. 

“Cap says that you pulled him out of the river, that true?” Silence, which is enough of an answer, really. “Why?”

A moment, two, then Barnes sighs.

“No one else needs to die,” he repeats, firmer this time. He shifts his weight, fidgeting, but not quite. A harsh swallow, brows pinching together. “And… he’s important.” The confession is soft, barely audible in the small apartment. 

“Do you know why?”

“No.” Barnes finally meets his gaze, teeth clenched and dead on in a challenge, practically daring Sam to call him out on his answer. 

His response here matters. If Sam gets it wrong, it could all be over, and Barnes could disappear for good. 

_Deer in the pathway_.

It’s a lie, he thinks, or maybe a half-truth. Maybe Barnes is still figuring it out. Maybe Sam is overthinking it. Maybe Barnes is protecting himself. 

_Fight or flight_. 

Maybe Barnes is protecting Steve. 

_One shift of his weight in the leaves_…

Maybe Barnes is protecting _him_. 

_And it’s all over_. 

Maybe Barnes’ words don’t matter at all. Maybe he has all he needs from the way Barnes is standing, strong and defiant. 

_What do you do_?

He looks Barnes in the eyes, deep brown on piercing blue. Rolls his shoulders back and stands tall in the face of The Winter Soldier. 

He can practically hear Riley calling him an idiot from the grave. 

“Okay,” Sam agrees quietly, moving his hands to his pockets. 

Barnes relaxes, fractionally, but enough that he can see the slight sag in his shoulders, the puff of his cheeks from a barely there sigh. 

“Why here?” He ends up asking, shrugging as he looks around the room. Breathes. “I mean, Prague is nice and all, but why the Czech Republic?” 

“Not a common place to go,” Barnes says with as close to a shrug as he thinks he’s going to get, eyes going back to the floor. “I like the language.” 

Sam nods at that. “Fair enough.” 

He scans Barnes over again, seeing the first hints of the handsome soldier in the pictures peeking through. 

Bucky’s there. Buried, trapped down deep in the psyche of the man standing in front of him, but he’s there. Somewhere. Barnes just has to find him. Let him free. 

Trust himself. 

Sam sighs, looking around the apartment before landing his eyes back on Barnes. 

“Look, man, I’ll be real with you: I don’t trust you.”

“Good.” Barnes’ voice is sure, resigned. The worst part is, he sounds like he believes it. 

“But,” Sam continues, ignoring the tight chain of sympathy coiling around his heart at the palpable self-hatred pouring off of Barnes. “I don’t think you’re as dangerous as people say you are.” 

Barnes jerks his head, just a little, but enough to show his surprise at the statement. 

“So, with that in mind… I’m going to make you an offer.” Barnes’ head snaps up, eyes wide and lips parted. His breathing picks up again, and he licks his lips. Frowns. “You come back with me, today, and we get you into therapy. _Serious_ therapy, with the very best in the _world_. We get you the best lawyers, best doctors, whatever you need. No charge, you can be close to Steve–”

“_No_.” Barnes’ voice is _desperate_, a _plea_, his eyes suspiciously wet. A soft shake of his head. “No.”

“Why not?” Sam asks, gently. “This is a once in a lifetime offer, y’know.” He winces, then amends, “well, from me. You could probably breathe in Steve’s direction and he’d–”

“_NO_.” Barnes’ voice is loud, _hard_ and cracking on the edges. His bottom lip trembles, tears gathering on his lashes, heavy and shiny under the ceiling light. Red comes to the rims of Barnes’ eyes, making that impossible, startlingly _beautiful_ blue even more pronounced. “_Please_.”

“Why?” he repeats, squinting as he scrutinizes Barnes. “Tell me why, and I’ll leave it.” It’s a promise, though he isn’t sure what his word means to Barnes anyway. 

Barnes looks at him desperately, like he’s trying to convey the answer without saying a word. When Sam raises an eyebrow, he squeezes his eyes shut and exhales harshly through his nose. Clenches his fists and flexes his fingers, once, twice, three times before he opens his mouth. 

“It’s not safe,” Barnes finally confesses, words unsteady and almost breaking at the end. 

“For who?” Sam asks, taking a step forward. Barnes takes a step back. “You?” Barnes just stares at him. “Steve?” 

The muscle in Barnes’ jaw jumps. A twitch of his fingers. 

Those fucking eyes. 

It’s enough of an answer for Sam, and he nods, making a decision.

He just hopes it’s the right one.

Sam takes a deep breath, slaps his thighs and shrugs. 

“Oh well,” he starts, ignoring the frown on Barnes’ face. “I guess this lead went cold a while ago. I should get back to the states and let Cap know it was a bust.”

Barnes’ eyes go wide, mouth hanging open in shock. Sam gives him a dry look, moving passed Barnes as he makes his way to the door. He pauses, looking over his shoulder, finding Barnes in a similar position, but not looking directly at Sam. The expression on his face is a complete opposite of what would be expected from someone as terrifying as The Winter Soldier; open surprise, fear, and hope, all rolled into one. If anything, it solidifies Sam’s choice. 

“Look, I’ve been watching you for a while. You’ve gone out of your way to not hurt or even scare anyone; if anything _you_ look afraid of _them_. And since you want to stay away, I’m leaving. I won’t stop looking because I promised Cap, but I’m not dragging you back if you don’t want to come. This is your one shot, do you understand?” He made sure his tone left no room for argument, no leeway in any direction. Barnes nods, miniscule. His breathing is heavy, disbelieving.

“One mistake, one setback, and it’s over. It ain’t my job to bring you in kicking and screaming; whatever you think you’re protecting Steve from is between you, and him. But you _owe me_, big time. And not just for this.” He turns, letting a little bit of amusement come into his expression. “I just paid off that car, man.” 

If his eyes don’t deceive him, that’s a smile pulling on Barnes’ lips. 

Sam taps the doorframe, and nods. “Don’t fuck this up,” he says in lieu of a goodbye, stepping out of the apartment. 

Before he can close the door fully behind him, Barnes shoots his hand out and catches it by the knob. 

“Thank you,” he says, meeting his eyes dead on with a serious expression. “I won’t.” 

Sam takes a moment, looks Barnes (_Bucky, he thinks_) over one last time. He prays to God that he’s making the right decision. 

“Just get a damn haircut man, and shave that thing off your face; you look like a drug addict,” he says teasingly, leaving a blinking Barnes in his apartment as he walks out. 

If he hears a snort of laughter from behind him, well, there’s no one else there to say. 

. . .

Three days later, when Sam comes back to that tiny little apartment, it looks like no one has lived there for months. 

. . .

Sam sighs in relief when he walks back into the compound, happy to be back in a place where at least everything makes sense. 

He finds Steve fairly quick, quietly reading a newspaper as he eats his breakfast. Natasha is sitting next to him at the table, flipping through a few folders. She glances up and nods at him in acknowledgement with a knowing smirk on her face that he doesn’t understand, and isn’t sure he wants to. 

“Welcome back,” she greets, crossing her legs as Cap snaps his head up and smiles. “How was Europe?”

“Did you find anything?” Steve asks hopefully, putting down his newspaper and getting up to give Sam a half-hug. 

“Boring,” he lies, ignoring Natasha’s raised eyebrow behind Steve’s back. “Sorry, man. Trail went cold a long time ago.” 

He feels bad about lying to Steve, especially when he’s immediately hit with the kicked-puppy-eyes and a sad sigh, but he stands by his decision. 

“It’s alright, Sam,” Steve says, putting a consoling hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find something eventually.” 

“I ain’t givin’ up, don’t worry,” he promises, clapping Steve on the arm and giving him a squeeze. 

_Just trusting my gut_. 

. . .

“It was his eyes, wasn’t it?”

Sam turns from the pan he’s using, raising his eyebrows at Natasha as she leans against the doorframe. She has that classic smirk of hers on, arms crossing across her chest. 

“That door was locked, you know.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and steps into his kitchen, unceremoniously taking a seat at his counter. “Don’t be naïve,” she tells him dryly. “So?”

“So, what?” he asks, feigning confusion and turning back to his stir-fry. 

“Why you let Barnes go,” she says casually, swiping a piece of bell pepper from the plate of uncooked vegetables. “It was his eyes, right?”

Sam chokes and tries to cover it with an unconvincing cough. He pushes the onions around and refuses to look at Natasha. “I didn’t see Barnes.”

“I told you not to be naïve,” she chastises, but sounds amused. “You can lie to Steve all you want, but don’t think you can pull that with me.” 

He turns and glares at Natasha over his shoulder, who raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him in return. Sighing, he turns back to his onions, pushing them around more than he needs to. 

“I don’t know what you think it is, but it’s not like that.” 

“Oh, I’m not judging you,” she says, smirking as he glares at her and snatches the plate of vegetables away. “He does have very pretty eyes.”

“Ha, ha,” he grumbles, tossing in the bell peppers with more force than strictly necessary. A few cranks of black pepper, then, serious, “it wouldn’t have been right.”

“To bring him in?”

He shakes his head. “Not like that.” 

Natasha hums. “Let’s hope you’re right,” she says, “For what it’s worth: I think you are.” 

She stands, coming up and rubbing his back for a moment. Pats him once, then turns back towards his door. “Don’t burn your food, Wilson.”

He snorts a laugh, then scrambles to turn down the heat because his food is, in fact, burning in the pan. 

When he turns around to say thank you, his kitchen is empty and his front door is shut. 

Goddamn spies. 

. . .

Four months after he broke into Barnes’ apartment, when he’s almost forgotten his joke about his car, Sam receives a check in the mail. 

It’s for the exact amount of his car, with an extra $15,000 on top. 

. . .

The next time he sees Barnes in person, he’s chasing him down Romanian roads, wondering if he was wrong to leave that apartment oh so many months ago. 

Later, when he sees Barnes’ expression while he’s strapped into that box, restrained like some sort of wild animal, he thinks he was right after all. 

He thinks of that deer, too. 

. . .

“Why’d you let me go?” 

“Hm?” he hums, half-asleep and very comfortable on Bucky’s chest, still tacky with sweat. 

“In Czechia,” Bucky says softly, and that wakes Sam right up, “why’d you let me go?” 

Sam pulls himself up a bit, hovering over his partner, and really looks at him. 

At the open, trusting expression that he has the absolute _privilege_ of seeing everyday, at the way his hair, healthy and shiny, halos around his head on the pillow. Marvels at the healthy glow of his skin, the fullness of his cheeks, covered with just the right amount of stubble, and the lack of dark circles under his eyes. 

Those beautiful, beautiful blue eyes, clearer than they’ve been in decades, he thinks. 

“Your eyes,” he says, only half-joking, but Bucky laughs anyway, a wonderful sound that Sam is so incredibly fond of hearing. 

“C’mon man, I’m serious,” Bucky chuckles, gently hitting him on the arm with his flesh hand. 

Sam laughs too, setting his hand down on Bucky’s chest and softly rubbing his thumb back and forth. He always enjoys the way his muscles relax under his fingertips, supersoldier skin exceptionally warm to the touch. 

It had taken a long time and a lot of gentle coaxing to get Bucky comfortable enough to let Sam touch him in an intimate setting, let alone with his shirt off. It had been a constant give and take, those same careful steps he took all those years ago, before Thanos and dust and stones from the universe and shields and _Steve_; those same fight or flight instincts, just manifesting and morphing in different ways as the years go by. 

But Bucky doesn’t fit that deer, or even the wolf anymore, not really. He’s mellowed out, now, gentle and careful in all that he does. He’s sweet, and he’s kind to the bone and _funny_, and everything Sam had hoped he would turn into all those years ago, yet so much more. 

Bucky is beautiful, inside and out; there’s no other way of saying it. 

“So am I,” he says, smiling when Bucky traces up and down his arm with cool, but not cold, never cold, metal fingers. 

Goosebumps crawl their way up his flesh, but he thinks they have nothing to do with temperature. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky asks, brows pinching together. “I know my eyes are pretty, but–” Bucky breaks into giggles when Sam pinches his ribs. 

“Shut up, man,” he chastises, rolling his eyes. 

Sam sighs, looking up at the ceiling as if it will tell him how to answer, then back at Bucky. Bucky, who he gets to call _his_, who’s safe and happy and warm. Who trusts him, like _this_, with _everything_.

It’s more than he could have ever asked for. 

“There was something about your eyes, Buck. Seriously. You weren’t ready,” he explains, voice dropping to a softer volume. Bucky seems to notice the seriousness in his tone, because his face sobers, watching him attentively. “I feel like if I had dragged you back that day, something bad would’ve happened… Like you would’ve ran, or something worse.”

Bucky right hand comes up, cupping the side of his face, and Sam reaches up to hold it there, thumb gently rubbing. 

“You were probably right,” Bucky confesses, barely a whisper in the cool air of their bedroom. “Thank you,” Bucky says, meeting his eyes deadon. It’s a different kind of stare from the one he received all those years ago; it’s not a challenge, this time. It’s something different, something…

Sam licks his lips. “Just following my gut,” he says, shrugging half-heartedly. 

Studies Bucky’s face. He reaches out, and touches, just because he can, pads of his fingers tracing over the features he finds. A freckle here, a wrinkle there; drags his fingertips over his forehead and eyebrows, his nose down to his lips soft and pillowy, over the stubble on his chin. 

“I’m glad you did,” Bucky whispers, breath turning heavy, and when Sam pulls his fingers back, he gets a puff of hot air over his nails. 

Bucky reaches out and rolls them suddenly, straddling Sam’s bare hips under a tangle of sheets, hands pressing hard into his shoulders. Sam grabs him by the hips, digging his thumbs into the crests of his pelvis. Slowly, Bucky leans back down, hands made of both metal and flesh and blood coming up to gently cup his face and neck, until he’s exhaling hot and wet onto Sam’s nose. Those blue eyes flicker all over his face, like he’s memorizing every detail he can find, making sure it’s forever ingrained in his brain. 

Sam’s suddenly reminded of the wolf, and finds that he’s the prey, pinned under this big, beautiful mass of pure muscle and grace. His heart rabbits in his chest, pounding against his sternum, but he’s nothing even close to afraid. 

He drags a hand up Bucky’s back, nails digging into his Lats and shoulder blades–revels in the hitch of his breath and blown pupils. 

“I love you,” he confesses on an exhale, the words falling light and easy off his tongue. Easier they have in a very, very long time.

And Bucky, beautiful, stunning, _bright_ Bucky, smiles, a bright ray stolen from the sun. 

“I love you, too,” Bucky rasps, repeating the words over and over with every kiss to his throat, every scrape of his beard. 

When Bucky goes down, down, down, Sam’s fingers tangled into that soft, beautiful hair of his, Sam knows, deep in the marrow of his bones, that leaving that tiny space was the right thing to do. 

That instinct is almost never wrong, afterall.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! let me know what you thought, and come yell with me on tumblr! @ rux-ian <3 i hope you enjoyed!


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